Sam knows how pain works. His memories of the Cage are hazy impressions of terror and worship and sensations he hadn't known existed, and nothing could ever be that way, nothing will come close, but he's got his own set of responses these days.
With the small, nasty hurts- pulled teeth and fingernails and the like- one way is to focus on the pain. To study it, absorb yourself into it, analyse the sensation itself. Sam likes this method; it reduces the feelings to something bearable, quantifiable.
But to do that, you have to hold on to some shreds of logic. Even an old hat like Sam can't do that all the time. Sometimes he just has to go away inside, to retreat into some soft dark hollow of his mind and close his eyes. It creates distance, at least.
He's never really been embarassed about screaming. Not since the Cage. He might have gone in there with a bunch of tough-guy resolutions about keeping himself brave for as long as possible, but really, it wasn't as if Lucifer was going to judge him. And you try not screaming when your bones are being pulled out one by steaming one.
Dean is the exception to Sam's rule. It seems that Dean is the exception to a lot of things. Sam can tell himself all kinds of reasons for it, but the real reason he tries to swallow back the screams is probably something deep and Freudian; he'd really rather not poke their issues with a stick. By earth standards, what Dean's done to him is probably a seven, right up to the bleach and the minor flaying. By Hell standards, maybe a nought point six. Or point five.
Shit, his mouth tastes awful. Like sour bile and old pennies.
Sam peels open his eyes after the room has been silent for five minutes. His lashes are all clumped together. It could be blood- he's pretty sure he has a head wound from Dean whacking him with that fucking gun- or tears. His whole face feels tight and itchy, so probably the latter.
He's in shock, he realises; he can feel himself shivering, and prickling hot-cold flushes keep rolling over him. It seems kind of absurd, given that so much worse has been done to him. He doesn't feel that bad, though, overall. The stomach wound is by far the worst- he really ought to be writhing in agony right now. The burn is like someone set him on fire and dropped him in acid, which isn't actually that far from the truth. He'd guess that that wound clocks in at five inches long, two wide; he'll need a skin graft, need a hospital, need-
Dean. Oh, God, Dean, what the fuck happened and was this what he was like in Hell and how could Sam be so fucking dumb and is that what selling his soul did to him-
He's hyperventilating. He can feel his chest heaving; his head is spinning, and he can't pass out now. Sam forces himself back under control. Focus. Focus. That wasn't Dean. Focus. If it was Dean, it was something that Dean couldn't help. Focus. Nobody's fault.
God, he just turned so quickly. The only thing Sam can think of is that finding all that fucking stuff about the leviathan shootings must have triggered something in Dean. He'd thought he was a killer, a psychopath; perhaps he tapped into his torturer-persona. Or perhaps he just really fucking hates Sam, deep down (and that's not true, Sam knows that, but God it's hard not to think like that when he's seen the contempt in Dean's eyes). Perhaps it's just old urges coming back to bite them both in the ass.
Dean's been gone about ten minutes now, he thinks. The most likely scenario is that Dean will kill the manticore, get the eye, and stagger back in about fifteen hours' time. Then- who knows? He seemed like he was having some kind of Hell flashback when he lurched out, muttering about fingernails and crucifiction and all kinds of shit Sam doesn't want to think about. Maybe when he comes back he'll release Sam and drive him to the nearest hospital. Or maybe he'll go on torturing him. Hell, Sam doesn't even know that Dean did go off to kill the manticore. He's probably passed out in an alley somewhere.
But if he is having Hell flashbacks, and he did go to kill the manticore...
That sounds like a death sentence to Sam. He ought to know.
Moving is a tremendous effort, but he manages to tug against the cuffs. God, even that clenches his stomach muscles; the exposed strip where skin's been removed feels like it's been sandpapered.
If he doesn't do this, Dean could die. Even if Dean doesn't die, he might never get back his memories without Sam's help. If Dean doesn't get back within about a day, the muscle beneath Sam's flayed patch of skin will dry and harden. Will probably get infected, too, and then he's screwed.
Sam breathes in deep, ignoring the foul taste of his mouth. He reaches for the anger that seized him earlier.
The cuffs are tight.
But they're not that tight.
Sam grits his teeth, and pulls.
